


come home to my heart

by yorus



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Esports, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Mild Angst, esports au, idiots and feelings, poggerino, they are gamers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28954371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yorus/pseuds/yorus
Summary: Rintarou misses the stage. The subtle fire in his blood, the scrappy fights for the throne, the crowning of that season’s champions. In game, you have the chance to be reborn again, and again, the chance to prove yourself, over and over. There are twelve players on one stage. Only six ever prevail. These facts remain, no matter how many years pass.
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 7
Kudos: 56





	come home to my heart

**Author's Note:**

> some background info if you are unfamiliar with esports:  
> \- one calendar year typically has two seasons and one big regional/domestic championship for the year  
> \- international events include mid-season invitationals, all stars  
> \- players can usually bring their own peripherals/equipment to play on stage with  
> \- acronyms used: APM = Actions Per Minute, JPL = Japan Pro-League

_“The past is a black hole, cut into the present day like a wound.”_

_\- Ling Ma_

When you’re 18, you get to be Rookie of the Year, if you’re good enough. When you’re 25, you’re washed up. 

They say your reaction speed is slow, that your APM is not enough, that you are unable to keep up with the younger, fresher faces on the scene. You have played this game for 9 years, from its inception, but what does it matter, right?

The kids are wolves. Brash and unrefined, maybe, but they hunger. Hunger for their first drop of saccharine victory, hungry to prove themselves, to ascend to the top and knock kings off their thrones, to end dynasties and start new ones. 

How do you measure one's career? Is it domestic titles or international success? Is it both? Is the world stage merely a circus, or is it a chance to prove yourself, to scrabble for a spot among the stars, to rewrite history in front of millions?

Is it foolish to hope? Everyone falls from glory someday. 

>>

Rintarou is 26. He does not hunger anymore, not in the same way that he did when he was new and life was the four walls of a practice room and matches at the Arena and everything seemed possible.

He retired from the scene 2 years ago, when his fingertips and wrists ached, when a little more dread than usual found a home in his ribcage just from looking at the screen of the game. It wouldn’t have been fair to keep on going. 

There is nothing glorious about having an expiration date, nothing glorious about the years passing by all too quickly and seeing your stage playtime slowly dwindle. Players were replaceable. He had seen it coming anyways. Rintarou would rather have left of his own volition than inevitably be benched or released for better, more profitable prospects. 

So he packed the last few years of his life, the memories of his teams and his career, into a bag and suitcase along with the contingency plan he’d made with the team manager last year, returned home to Aichi, and watched notifications pour in following his retirement announcement. 

His fellow players text him in support. Rintarou’s thumb hovers over the one contact he wants to hear from. Nothing happens.

>>

He sits and absentmindedly traces drops of condensation on the plastic cup of his iced tea while looking out the cafe window, searching for a face he knows. His phone lies flat on the table, screen showing his most recent text convo. Rintarou turns his attention away from the outside to swipe fruitlessly at the screen, in an attempt to refresh the convo and see a new message. Nothing like that happens, so he closes the app and navigates to twitter, hoping to pass some time quicker. 

Just as the screen loads, a body slides into the seat across from him. Rintarou looks up, meets familiar eyes and a familiar slight grin. 

“Osamu,” he says, and the name is more foreign on his tongue than it should be, shaped like years of waiting. 

“Nice to see ya, Rin. Been a while.”

The 5th syllable that falls off Osamu’s tongue makes Rintarou start a little. He hasn’t been called that in a while. It feels all too nostalgic, like days spent huddled in front of a monitor, watching replays and dissecting them action by action, like days where they had the chance to lounge lazily by the backyard, in the shade of summer, frozen chuupets in hand.

“Yeah. Yeah it has,” he replies. He feels like he should say something more, like thanks for texting or thanks for reaching out, but maybe it would be too awkward. Why should Rintarou be thanking him?

“Good to see you too dude,” he adds instead. “Do you want a drink?”

“Nah, I’m good for now. Maybe some food later though,” Osamu says while reaching across the table for Rin’s cup. 

“Uh huh, sure,” Rintarou says, but makes no move to stop Osamu. 

“What’ve ya been up to?” Osamu asks, sipping shamelessly on tea that isn’t his. 

“University.” 

“No way!” Osamu exclaims. “Didn’t think ya would go into academia.”

“Oh? What did you think I’d be then?” 

“Streamer, probably. Or like, YouTube. Those flicks an’ headshots would make some sick highlight clips.”

“Nah, couldn’t be talking for that long,” Rintarou disagrees. Plus it feels like way too much work.

“Fair, fair. What’re ya majorin’ in?”

“Mmm, don’t know how to explain it exactly. It's kinda like computer science. But multimedia.” 

“Sounds complicated, but interestin’. Teach me sometime.” 

“Maybe, but you wouldn’t last a day.”

 _Sometime_. Sometime implies that there will be another time they’ll be together like this, and Rintarou doesn’t want to think too hard about that yet. 

“What? But ya lasted this long!” 

“Yeah and my brain hurts every waking moment.” Rintarou makes a grab for his drink, which is a not insignificant amount emptier than it was 2 minutes ago. “So, what about you? What have the last 2 and a half years been like?”

Osamu rubs the back of his neck half-sheepishly. 

“Been workin’ around, cooking and stuff, started my own place last year.”

Rin grins, and it is wide, genuine. “Happy for you dude. I fucking knew it. Used to catch you cheffin’ it up in the kitchen at 2 am like twice in the same week.”

>>

_[2017, Season 10]_

Rintarou slipped out of his room and into the hallway. The entire floor was dark, save for the tiny gaps of light leaking through the bottoms of doors. It was late at night, the kind of late that means it’s actually early early morning, but Rin could tell most of the others are still up by the sound of clicking mechanical keyboards and mouses. 

So much for resting after their loss earlier that day. It wasn’t even supposed to be a hard matchup. Rintarou wished he could say it had been a close game, the type of tough that makes the adrenaline surge in your blood, the type of tough you fight tooth and nail for, the type of tough where you can honestly say ‘good game’ after and truly mean it. 

Zenko Damage was the 5 time JPL champion. They were the old gods. Rintarou, having been there for 4 of those championships, is more than familiar with the high expectations others hold him to. 

There may be 6 players to a team, and they may lose together, but it would be stupid to assume that each of them would not take the loss just as harshly. 

All there was left to do was practice harder. And so they did, a steady rhythm of tapping key caps and clicks that stretched into the night. 

Rintarou made his way slowly downstairs to the kitchen, but not in a particularly careful manner. People are up, anyways.

He had expected an empty kitchen, where he could fumble around, in the dark, in peace, for his cereal box that he’d tucked into one of the cabinets. But when his bare feet hit the bottom landing, Rintarou saw that the kitchen was lit, bright against the surrounding inkinesss of the living room.

There were utensils, bowls, and ingredients scattered across the island and counter. Osamu stood among it all like he was in some afternoon Food Network show, and not like it was 2 in the fucking morning. 

Rin squinted against the bright light as his eyes attempted to adjust.

“Good morning to you too,” he said to Osamu.

As he drew closer, he noticed the rice first, then the nori. He should’ve guessed. On their konbini runs, Osamu had always bought an unholy amount of onigiris.

Even so, Rin thought one should work smarter, not harder. 

“You know we have a team chef, right?” 

“Yeah, but that’s no fun, I wanna do it myself,” Osamu replied, hands firmly shaping rice.

Rin hummed in agreement and slunk over to one of the stools by the kitchen island. He found an empty spot and pillowed his head on two arms, silently observing Osamu’s steady hands as he pressed a thumb into the rice, made a space for the filling, scooped okaka into the center, and pushed rice back over it. 

He told himself that he stayed in the interest of free food, to satisfy his late night hunger. He told himself that as he traced his eyes over Osamu’s concentrated expression. It’s a different kind of concentration than when he’s leaned in close to the screen, brows knitted, focused on turning the odds of a 4v5 teamfight. 

He was content in the silence, the only conversation topic that came to mind was their game earlier that day, and he could tell Osamu was probably trying to actively not think too hard about it yet. 

Rin’s stomach rumbled lightly, just enough to be heard, breaking whatever kind of peace that had previously settled. 

“I ain’t feeding ya unless your lazy ass helps out,” Osamu said, looking over at him, the corners of his mouth slightly quirked up. 

“Of course, of course. Whatcha need?” “C’mere and grab the umeboshi for me, it's too far and my hands are all wet and salty.”

RIntarou walked over, and in an attempt to not take the three extra steps to properly be in reach of the ingredient, he stopped close behind Osamu and stretched over him to reach for the umeboshi. He might have underestimated how long his limbs were, because he had to lean a little further than anticipated, chest pressed flush to the heat of Osamu’s back for a long second, before he grasped the container and dragged it nearer. 

He could feel the slight flush on his cheeks as he stepped away. 

_Get it together, Rin._

“Gonna go wash the dishes,” he mumbled and averted his eyes. Osamu hummed in acknowledgement, focused on removing the seed from the umeboshi. Rintarou grabbed 2 small bowls off the counter, ones that probably didn’t really need to be washed yet, but just happened to be near. 

He turned the faucet on and stuck his fingers under the tap, checking the cool temperature. He picked up the first bowl to rinse it, then scrubbed, letting soap and tiny streams of water run over knuckles. If there were eyes lingering on Rin’s back, he didn’t notice. 

When he turned back around, there were two plates on the counter, with two onigiri placed on each of them. Osamu was already eating from the plain, flat colored orange one, and gestured mid chew for Rintarou to take the other plate, the one with tiny, cute foxes decorating the border. 

After that, these nights became something like routine to them. Rin finds Osamu in the kitchen at ungodly hours, he stays to chat, to watch, and occasionally help out. Sometimes there’s music playing softly in the background, soft jazz and the occasional nostalgic pop song, courtesy of Rin leeching off of Osamu’s Spotify premium and making a playlist himself. Of course, there is always the promise of food in the end.

This pocket of time in the limbo of late night and early morning was theirs, and theirs only. 

>>

On another one of these nights, Osamu had asked Rin if his favorite food was freezer ice pops. Rin had eyed him, a little suspicious, and said yes. The team had literally gone grocery shopping earlier and Rin had slid a bag of fruit flavored ice pops into the cart. 

“Hmm, guess ice pop onigiri would get soggy too fast, even if it could be made, in theory,” Osamu pondered. 

Rintarou only raised an eyebrow, in spite of the very visceral feeling that sentence evoked. “As much as I like ice pops, those would probably not taste too great.”

Osamu shook his head. “It’s not ‘bout taste, ’s about if it could happen.” He paused. “How do ya feel about jelly? The kind that comes in the little cups.”

“If you’re still thinking about onigiri, jelly would probably work better.”

Osamu hummed in agreement and went to open nearly all the cabinets in the kitchen, looking for jelly, mumbling, “I think I hid a pack in here last week.”

He triumphantly located it, tucked away in the left corner of the last overhead cabinet. There were exactly two jellies left, just enough. 

Osamu offered it to Rin, and said, “Pick a color.”

Rin scrunched his nose.

“You’re really doing this,” he commented, and reached into the pack to pick the yellow jelly. 

Osamu just grinned. “Sure am.”

The end result was expectedly terrible and surely a culinary monstrosity, but Rin bit into it anyways. Osamu cackled upon seeing his disgusted face, and had immediately wanted to try it next. 

“Needa see how bad it is if it’s got ya lookin’ like that,” he claimed. 

Then it was Rin’s turn to laugh as Osamu’s expression screwed up. 

“You did this to yourself,” he commented. 

“Shaddup.” Osamu reached over and flicked Rin lightly on the nose. 

“Gonna finish that?” 

“Don’t wanna waste it,” Osamu says while looking absolutely like he doesn’t want to finish it. 

In all honesty, Rintarou didn’t think it was too bad. Sure, the texture was weird, but the intact sweetness of the jelly was like summertime, familiar and new all at once. 

“Here, just separate them again.” He reached over, thin, knobbly fingers doing their best to carefully pry gelatin away from short grain rice, and one hand steady on Osamu’s wrist, keeping him still. The heat of contact burns. Summertime. 

“Why are yer fingers so fucking cold,” Osamu complained. “And now it’s not onigiri anymore.”

Rin plopped the jelly into his mouth, licked the excess from his fingertips, and nudged at Osamu. 

“You got a better idea shithead? Just eat.”

>>

There is a photo Rintarou likes. It sits near the beginning of his camera roll, buried between sightseeing pictures of Guangzhou, from a mid season tournament years ago, and beach pictures in California, from All Stars. Unlike the ones that surround it, it’s not a picture he’d taken himself, but saved from some press article. 

There are other images of Osamu and Rintarou out there, documenting their careers throughout the years. Tight hugs shot at the height of celebration, victory screen still playing out in the background, lights like stars overhead. A comforting hand on a back, figures bathed in vanquished red, defeat flashing on the displays. 

But this one is his favorite. 

Osamu is turned to shoot a grin at the camera, torso facing sideways, outlined in the typical red and blue stage lights. He’s clutching his keyboard and mouse pad equipment in one hand. On the very edge of the photo, blurred and half cropped out, Rintarou sees himself. He’s in the process of setting down his own equipment, but the moment captures him looking at Osamu, a rare smile gracing his face. 

Rintarou misses the stage. The subtle fire in his blood, the scrappy fights for the throne, the crowning of that season’s champions. In game, you have the chance to be reborn again, and again, the chance to prove yourself, over and over. There are twelve players on one stage. Only six ever prevail. These facts remain, no matter how many years pass. 

He is aware the shrine at the top is weathered, an accumulation of the battles fought and years spent defending it. It is a shrine from his youth, one he helped build from dust, and with the foundations in place, the old guard retires one by one. Kodai goes first, then Tomohiro, and then it’s too many to chronologically keep track of in his head. This is not surprising. The scene changes rapidly, it’s the inherent nature of such an industry. Back then, in the very beginning, there was no emphasis placed on mental wellness or even physical condition. You woke up, and played like the world was gonna end tomorrow.

Eventually, Osamu goes too. 

It happens all too suddenly. Osamu had been by his side for most of his career, never one without the other. For the first time in a long time, Rin grasps at empty air after a match, the ghost of a hug. 

Rintarou misses the stage, but that’s not the feeling that eats at him at night and leaves him walking to empty kitchens, searching for something that wouldn’t be found. 

He misses the person he stood on it with. 

>>

Osamu slurps noisily at the remnants of drink left, and Rin lets him. The surviving ice cubes rattle around.

“Do you ever miss it?” 

Osamu looks up. “Yeah, I do. Sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” Rintarou echoes. 

“What about you?”

“Yeah.” Rintarou does not offer an answer on how often. 

>>

_[2020, Season 15]_

Rin was half-conscious, sleep-addled, woken up by the sound of his door creaking open, and the rustle of clothes, which indicated that someone had slipped inside. His bed dipped under familiar weight, and there was warmth against his legs. He kept his eyes closed, keeping the illusion of sleep. 

Maybe he should’ve opened them, and maybe things could’ve been different. 

A hand carded through his hair, sweeping gently across the strands. It was calm, lulling Rin slowly back into the cradle of sleep. He feels Osamu attempt to tuck a part of his bangs behind his ears, only for the shorter strands to fall across his face again. It tickled. The hand stops. 

The bed dips again, and Rin feels the weight shift a little. Fingertips brushed against his forehead. Sleep wraps it’s way around Rin more securely, blurring the edges of his consciousness feather-soft. 

And then, a warm press of lips to skin, just barely. The brief contact only registers in Rin’s head faintly, half memory and half dream. 

And then, nothing. 

The next morning, there was no sign of Osamu. His room is cleared out, with the exception of some things left behind. Rin didn’t look through it, didn’t know if he should. The staff only say that he’d taken a break. Rintarou only nodded in answer. Breaks were not uncommon, and the season had winded down for them anyways. Things were probably okay, even if he’d thought it was a little strange he didn’t receive a text from Osamu first. 

There was no time to dwell, no room for further thought. The game demanded to be played, and the matches did not win themselves.

Rintarou checked his phone daily. His thumbs hovered over the keyboard many times, but the most that gets written is a letter, or a word, before it’s deleted. 

The days bled into weeks and stretched into months. 

Rin had tried calling, once. Only once, at 3 am, when there was more of a chance that nobody would pick up. He wouldn’t know what to say, anyways. They were friends sure, and maybe he’d wanted a little more, but was it enough of a reason to keep in touch?

He let it ring, and hung up as the automated voicemail greeting came through. 

When the start of the new season came and Osamu did not return, Rintarou had no other reason to stay. There was a hard-working substitute for him, bright-eyed and talented, fresh out of the academy team. He wished him good luck. The kid would do well. Rin’s wrists were aging, no matter how hard he tried not to think about them, and his mother contacted him more frequently, a not-so-subtle sign. The past few years he had was enough of a kindness for him. 

>>

Outside, the late afternoon sky darkens ever so slightly. They’ve run out of semi-sugary liquid and words to keep them occupied, distracted. Rin isn’t sure if he should bring up the entire reason they were sitting here now. He’s just grateful that they are. 

But the past bears upon the present with the weight of a star, a celestial, unforgiving kind of presence too heavy to be ignored. 

“Just ask me,” Osamu prompts. 

“You don’t have to te—”

“I want to.”

Rintarou falls silent for a moment, rolling the words around in his mouth, considering, before releasing them. 

“Why did you.. go that night?”

Osamu turns his head to look out the window of the cafe. 

“Felt like I had to, felt like nothing about waking up, playing, stressing about playing was fun anymore, not like it was before. Even thinking about playing was hard. The normal things I’ve done before became mentally taxing.”

He picks absentmindedly at a hangnail.

“It was just a break at first, moved back out to Amagasaki to live with my grandmother, saw my brother more often, helped an old friend with their farm and cooked more, but then four months passed by too quickly and I realized that I really was so much happier the way things were, and didn’t sign a contract for the next season.” Osamu exhales. “I probably should’ve said something about all of this befor—”

“You didn’t have to,” Rintarou says softly. “I understand. Maybe it would’ve been nice to know, but you don’t owe me anything ‘Samu.”

“No, I really was gonna tell ya, even tried writing a letter with some sappy shit in it but I gave up on that cause I can’t write. But I also didn’t wanna burden you or make you feel like you had to leave too.”

“C’mon you’ve known me for how long? I don’t do shit I don’t wanna do, Osamu. If you were ever a burden I’d just tell you you’re fucking boosted,”

“Wow, thanks dude.”

“Also, I’m happy we’re here now, but what made you reach out after all this time?” Rin asks. Even if it still hurt a tiny bit to think about not seeing Osamu again now, he knew eventually it would fade, and memories of the past would become blurred and indistinct, punctuated by a friendship and almost-love that has since moved on. 

Osamu looks at Rintarou, puzzled. 

“Isn’t it obvious? I missed you.”

Rintarou blinks. “What?”

“You do remember the night I left right? I knew you were fake sleeping by the way, asshole.”

“Yeah,” Rin says slowly. “Hold up, you knew I was fake sleeping?”

“Not the point. Point is I stroked your hair and kissed your forehead dummy. And I just admitted that I tried to write a sappy letter. For you.” 

Osamu sounds exasperated, but in a fond way. _Wait, a fond way?_ Rintarou processes this information. He can admit to himself that he’s got feelings but he never acted then, and university never taught him how to deal with them now. 

“You liked me?”

Osamu puts up a hand and covers half his face with his wrist. “Shut up, you don’t have to say it out loud. But yeah.”

Rin blinks again, realizing what he’d asked and what Osamu had replied. There was still something he wanted to clarify.

“Liked or like, like present-tense?” He asks. “Important stuff here.”

Osamu makes an unintelligible sound.

“Present tense, and past, now stop embarrassing me.”

“Oh. Okay, I like you too, by the way. Present tense. And also past tense.”

Rintarou smiles, watching Osamu remove his hand from his face, eyes blown wide. He takes the empty cup still on the table and points it at Rin. 

“You better not be kidding Sunarin or I’ll disappear again.”

“I’m not kidding ‘Samu,” Rintarou confirms. 

>>

There is a photograph Rintarou likes. It sits in the most recent section of his camera roll, preceded by a scenic picture of the sky and some buildings, taken in the morning from his apartment window, and a picture of a pretty drink on a white cafe table. It’s a picture he’s taken himself, and honestly he’s quite proud of this one. 

Osamu’s face isn’t turned towards the camera, but to the right, looking at something outside of the frame, like a window. His hand rests on a white cafe table, the same one from a previous photo in Rin’s camera roll. His fingers are intertwined with Rintarou’s slender ones, familiar and comfortable. Rintarou’s arm extends out of the bottom frame. The sunset light outlines Osamu’s profile, and extends across the table diagonally. An empty plastic cup on the table is caught in the border between shadow and light. 

There are many photos of Osamu and Rintarou, and there will hopefully be many more to come, but for now, this one is his favorite. 

**Author's Note:**

> hello, thank you for reading !!  
> the game they play kept vague on purpose, is it overwatch or league or something fictional like glory, idk up to you  
> on november 14th 2020, i said “i took a 4 hour nap today and had a dream i posted a fic and in one of the tags i wrote poggerino” this is that fic
> 
> title from [supercut- lorde](https://open.spotify.com/track/6IIcLzR05sN1gk4ngzz7Kk?si=q0cYgM7IR4-De1-yjl0LJw)
> 
> catch me on twt [@yoruuss](https://twitter.com/YORUUSS)


End file.
